A Gaggle of Goblins
by Valhallaist
Summary: My little Dungeon Keeper novelette. Barthog the goblin has just deserted the Keeper he was serving. Wounded with a poison-tipped elven arrow, he has no choice but to join another Dungeon where he'll be healed...and be tossed headfirst into another blood soaked campaign.
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

They say that once goblins and orcs were one and the same. Then one day some of them walked out of the great, ancient forests and made a new life among the rocky hills and grassy plains. They were the orcs. Those that stayed in the forests became goblins. The goblins had green skin to adapt to the forest, while the orcs turned tall and purple to adapt to...well..._something_, I'm sure. The goblins were a quiet folk, preferring to stay in their forests and feed on birds and squirrels (and the occasional baby they stole from nearby farms). Then, a number of them got it in their heads to follow the orcish way, and leave their leafy homes to seek fame and fortune. The elders of the goblin tribes could only shake their heads and such foolishness. What was out there for goblins but misery and woe? How could they survive when they were so small and weak? The younger, more adventurous of the goblin-kind had more optimistic notions. True they could get killed easily, but if they survived they could return home with enough wealth to buy a good belt. And what could be better than that?

Thus, the goblin hordes were born.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The battle was over. Barthog knew the exact moment they had lost. The walls of the Dungeon, across which red magic had streaked for so long, burst into a nova of light. The noise deafened every creature, friend or foe. And just as abruptly the walls became dead. The Heart of the Dungeon had been destroyed, scattering its magical link with every part of Lord Melor's domain.

'We're in skepittle now!' wailed Haglock.

A great roar of victory issued from the tunnel ahead. Barthog looked at his companion. This was Haglock's first experience of campaigning. If Barthog had much thought to spare, he would have wondered how he had survived this long. He had been sent with a troop of five goblins to defend the Portal tunnel. Two imperial knights had come to take the Portal. They were already injured, and the two surviving goblins were lucky. Barthog figured they were lucky in more ways than one.

'Don't know about you, mate,' said Barthog, 'but I'm getting the _kokthrot_ out of here.'

Barthog ran. He had to get to the other end of the tunnel, away from the Dungeon. He could make out the grey mists coming from the Portal. He could feel Haglock following. From the distance came cries as the last of his comrades fell. The dwarfs would be the first to raid the treasury. Barthog swore. Why did the bastards have to attack the day before payday?

There was a short yelp behind him. Barthog turned only for a flicker, long enough to see Haglock lying on his face with the shaft of an elven arrow sticking out of the back of his head. Cursing loudly, barthog serpentined. Another arrow hurtled past his face by half an inch. Elven arrows only ever missed when something wasn't stationary or moving in a straight line. Barthog held on to that thought as he gazed at the Portal entrance. He could see the mist issuing from the opening. Beyond it would be the great square pit, with four great crystal pillars looming out of its bottom at each corner. At the centre of the pit was the round, bottomless well – the Rabbit Hole. Barthog hoped the elves wouldn't follow. As he reached the entrance, an arrow scraped past his left ear, taking a small chuck with it. When he was just a foot from the edge of the pit, his right upper arm exploded with agony. The impact of the arrow knocked Barthog howling into the pit. Mists surrounded him now at all sides. Barthog crawled against the mist towards the centre of the pit from which the mist billowed in great, grey clouds. He was at the edge of the Rabbit Hole. Then he fell.

He was falling in total blackness. He could hear the rush of mist against his ears. It was cold here, so much so that even his long, thick skinned goblin fingers were numb within minutes. He started hearing other sounds around him. They were faint at first, and then grew louder into howls, shrieks, roars, groans and laughter. Barthog was accustomed to this from his previous Portal journeys. He kept himself still. The eternal tunnel of the Rabbit Hole scraped the Nether Plains. It was important to not broadcast your presence. It wasn't unknown for people to be snatched away from the tunnel by an inquisitive demon.

After what felt like an eternity, Barthog was flung into the light. He fell stomach-first on the floor of the Portal pit far from the Dungeon had had deserted. He rolled on his left, groaning. He saw the elven arrow shaft protruding from his upper arm. The greenish goblins skin was black with blood.

'Vurtawanga to all the elven kind.' He muttered. 'And may their women get bittapoonit.'

This made him feel a little better. He sat up to his knees. He was in the Portal of the Frubettle Market. This pit was much larger than the Dungeon's, and circular. Behind Barthog, a man in dirty robes hurtled out of the Rabbit Hole and crashed right next to him. Unconcerned, the man dusted himself briefly and ran to the wall of the pit. Barthog followed him. When he tried to climb, his right shoulder shrieked again from his injury. Another goblin entered the portal through the Rabbit Hole. Not one from the Dungeon Barthog had fled. Barthog didn't bother asking the man for help. He'd only be ignored. But he appealed to his fellow goblin.

'A hand, brother?' he said, as the other goblin began to climb. The goblin stared at him for a second, and then he threw back his head and cackled.

'Kokrot to you!' Bellowed Barthog.

Fuming, he made the climb one handed. After several falls and many curses towards elves, the other goblin and his mother, Barthog reached the Portal chamber. There were several doors around the circular wall. Since he couldn't read, he took a door labelled, "No Exyte". It didn't make a difference. All doors opened to the centre of the Frubettle Market.

The wave of the crowd tried to sweep him away almost instantly. The circular Portal chamber was an artificial construction in the vast cavern of the Frubettle Market. Torches flickered above the crowd on long, metal poles. There weren't many sources of light. Half the creatures that frequented here were nightseers. The other half were men who stumbled about while trying not to look foolish. The Frubettle Market was one of the few of its kind in the world. It was an oasis to those who dwelt under the surface of the world, and a refuge to those who had been cast out from above. Barthog pushed through the crowd and stood next to a fish stall. His bulging eyes scanned the cavern, looking for the right direction. He had been here six times before. Yet his sense of direction got frequently muddled here.

'Care for a slithytube, Master Greenskin?'

Barthog turned to meet the stall keeper. Perched on the large, chopping block table was an evil looking gnome. He held up an eel-like creature that was as large as himself. It was among the assortment of pale, slimy, razor-toothed things that he had hanging from the roof; all caught fresh from underground streams and lakes that never saw the light of the sun.

'Nah', said Barthog, who often got gas from slithytubes. 'But I went and forget my way around here. You wouldn't know the direction Hooknella keeps her shop, would you, Master Greyskin?'

'You'll need her.' guffawed the gnome, eyeing the arrow sticking out of Barthog's arm.

'They should have made you a Healer.' said Barthog. 'Where is she?'

'I sell fish, wartface, I'm not a kokthrotting tour guide.' The gnome sneered. He cocked his long, left ear towards a direction. 'Go that way. Look left and you'll see her soon enough.'

'Luck on your trade.' Said Barthog.

'Come back if you want a brotkilly,' said the gnome, pointing at the squid-like creature with a bulging eyeball at its centre. 'Caught fresh three hours ago from Pilikin's Stream up North.'

Hooknella's shop was at the North-western wall of the cave. It was a little cave of its own. One of hundreds cut all along the edge Frubettle's larger cave. The sign above the doors of her shop showed a goblin's head with an owl perched on top.

'Look like someone I know, you do.' Said Hooknella the moment Barthog entered. She pointed a long finger at slowly oozing wound at his shoulder. 'And that's an improvement.'

Barthog had not seen Hooknella for five years. They had grown up in the same village at the Lurkwood Forest. She had become the apprectice of the village Gobreich. She had departed once she realized she was too good of a gobrech to waste her talents on her fellow villagers. Barthog had visited her shop only once since her departure. She looked the same as ever, with the fetching beauty wart at the end of her nose, the alluring straw-hair that went down to the her shoulders, and the half-lidded sly eyes.

'Looks elf-made, too.' Said Hooknella, still looking at the arrow.

Barthog's head spun suddently. He was on his knees before he could speak. The arrow, he realized, was starting to do more than hurt.

'Don't go bleedin' and dyin' on my floor.' Snapped Hooknella. "I don't hire cleaners.

'Cut the bungslug, Hooknella." Moaned Barthog. 'Get it out of me! I'm not askin' fer favours. Do it and there's coins in it for you.'

'Then how can I refuse?' Said Hooknella wryly. She scrutinized him with a serious look. 'Now it's just the blood going out of you. What happens when the poison starts its work?'

_Poison_, Barthog remembered suddently. Elf arrows were poisoned. They worked slowly, but did their job effectively. And it was made for the likes of goblins.

'Get it out of me!' He pleaded.

The Gobreich tugged at her owl feather cloak and crossed her arms. "Do I look like I've got elf-poison antidotes?"

Barthog fell on his face. Hope was going out of him, and the horror of death was creeping slowly into his heart.

'You're pathetic.' Hooknella said scornfully. 'Should've stayed in Lurkwood, eating squirrels and maggots. Not made for the sword, you are.'

'You got to help me!' Barthog moaned.

Hooknella sighed.

'Go left from my shop. About ten caves away you'll find Madam Hawthorn's shop. Can't miss it, it's a big cave. Likes to show off, that kokthrottin' witch. But I'll bet my warts she's got the antidote.'

Barthog stumbled away and he did exactly as he was instructed. Hooknella busied herself with her jars. Business was slow today, but it gave her time to make some preparations. Five minutes after Barthog had gone; she thought she heard a distant blast. She briefly looked up to register it. Barthog stumbled back into her cave a while after, fuming and looking harassed.

'You know what that dungpoonit did?' He snarled at her. 'She threw a kokthrottin' vial at me! Didn't even let me finish what I was sayin'! It nearly blew my kokthrottin' face off!'

'Her loss.' Said the Gobreich. 'Lost a customer and a vial.'

Hooknella threw back her head and shrieked with laughter, while Barthog ranted and swore at her direction.

'Oh, shut your trap.' She said finally. 'I'll do what I can, only 'cos you're kokrotting useless. After that, you know what to do.'

'What?' Barthog said hopefully.

Hooknella gave him another contemptuous look.

'Guess you're deaf as well as daft.' She rapped. 'I hear word about a Keeper in the North. He's going after Boregind. And he's recruiting.'


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Barthog had been here once before. The sign above the door read "Hogar Sworde and Sorcerye for Hyre OR Frubettle Mercenarye Agency". Barthog couldn't read, of course, but he recognized it immediately. The recruitment chancery was exhaustingly difficult to locate. The way here was through a hidden opening at the South-Western corner of the Frubettle Market. After going through the opening, you came to an apparent dead end. Going further would unravel a disguised hole in the ground that would drop you at the end of a tunnel long tunnel. Assuming he hadn't broken a leg, the jobseeker would then find the chancery at the other end of the tunnel. The door rippled like the surface of a pond. A magic door. They had some of these in Lord Melor's Dungeon, and they always made Barthog nervous.

Barthog reached out, but the door swung open before he could touch it. He walked into a dimly lit chancery. It seemed less busy than the last time he was here. Out of the three tables at the far wall, only the middle was occupied. Two orcs stood guard either side of the door on the inside. Barthog recognized his tall and purple cousins. They were the same ones he had seen the last time. He didn't recognize the recruiter sitting on the table. Though as usual, the recruiter had the purple robes and two inch long goatee of a warlock.

'Well?' Snapped the recruiter as Barthog approached. Barthog shifted uncomfortably as the warlock's sharp eyes scanned him up and down. He'd never be given a job if he showed his injury. Hooknella had take out the arrow and disguised the wound well. His upper arm was covered with a leathery bandage that was the same murky green of goblin hide. On top of that she had put copper bracelets that made him feel like a prat. It hadn't cost him too much. Since he had stupidly left his sword buried in the neck of a knight, a portion of his meagre coin went into buying a copper one. The recruiter's eyes observed all this with characteristic contempt.

'Looking for work, master.' Said Barthog.

'Experience?' Said the recruiter.

'I just came out of Lord Melor's Dungeon. I was hired from here.'

'Ah, his fate was most regrettable.'

'It was, master.' Said Barthog. It couldn't have been more than a few hours since Barthog had escaped the Dungeon. However, it did not surprise him at all that Melor's fall was already known to the recruiters. It wouldn't surprise him if they knew it before it actually happened.

'And with such as expert sword-for-hire by his side, how was he defeated?' continued the warlock.

'I was also in Lady Krota's Dungeon, master,' said Barthog, ignoring the jibe. 'And also with Lord Maurod in his overground campaign.'

'Perhaps your presence blessed a dark lord who isn't dead?' Sneered the recruiter.

'Lady Krota was alive while I was in her service.' Said Barthog.

'How comforting.' The recruiter sneered again.

A piece of blank parchment fell out of the warlock's sleeve. He picked up a quill and jotted down a series of complicated symbols with great speed. Barthog knew what the symbols were for. Most Portals transported you to the nearest other Portal. But the magical symbols would guide him to a specific one that was otherwise inaccessible. The symbols changed daily to minimize the possibility of intruders coming in.

'Don't lose that when you step into the Portal,' said the recruiter while handing the parchment over to Barthog. 'Unless you fancy the notion of spending eternity in the Void. I hope Keeper Morg can make better use of you than those other unfortunates you've served. Now get out of my sight!'

Barthog saw a door on the wall behind the warlock he knew wasn't there before. A surge of pain in his shoulder stifled his urge to turn back. Sighing, he walked forward.

Barthog walked out of the Portal room into another vacant one. A door-shaped opening ahead lead the way to a long corridor. The walls of the Dungeon had the crooked look of something hastily built, and magically influenced. Hellish red lights danced on them from time to time. Something muttered, and then there was a faint echo of a shriek. Smell of blood and steel was thick in the claustrophobic air.

He was back.

'You will follow me!' Squeaked a voice.

Barthog looked to his left and saw a red skinned creature that barely came up to his waist.

'You will follow.' Said the creature again with its high-pitched voice. It was pointing at the opening ahead.

'I'll find me own way, rockrat!' Said Barthog.

Something growled to his right. It was a numbing, fear-inducing sound. Barthog turned to be confronted by two sets of red, gleaming on two long heads attached to a hairy body. The hellhound regarded him hungrily. Barthog didn't think it would give him a second chance, not with the opportunity to taste goblin flesh.

'Lead the way, rockrat.' Said Barthog reluctantly.

They went through the opening and down the tunnel, the imp scurrying and hopping ahead. The tunnel came to an end and went in two different directions. One path had reinforced walls of crooked brick, like the tunnel they had down in. The other was bare; an earthy tunnel supported by wooden beams. Barthog could hear faint sounds of pickaxe against earth and rock. Two more imps came scurrying out of the earthen tunnel carrying buckets on earth on their back. They ran towards the reinforced tunnel. Barthog and his escort followed them. They came to a door at the end of this tunnel. A magical one, Barthog knew immediately. Its surface rippled like the recruiter's door. As soon as it opened, Barthog heard the familiar, dreaded sound of a great Heartbeat.

He was in a large, high-ceilinged chamber. In the middle of it, a great crystal rested on a high, stone altar surrounded by four pillars.

The Heart.

'Touch the...' the imp began, but Barthog snapped at him.

'Shut it, rat. I've done it before.'

He went towards the Heart reluctantly. With each beat, a strange glow pulsated inside the crystal. Fiery red lights streaked across the walls of the room each time the Heart beat. A great flame licked and spat atop each of the four pillars. A strange sensation took hold of Barthog as he went up the steps to the altar. If he had hair on his body, they would have stood on end. The crystal loomed over him, filling him with the unpleasant sensation of being watched. Barthog reached out apprehensively and touched the crystal. His shrieks echoed in the chamber as agony took him. Something seemed to whisper into his ear – a cold threat of vengeance should he betray his new lord. Then the pain passed as if it were never there. Trembling, Barthog fell on his knees.

'Mi'lord Keeper.' He said, almost sobbing. He felt the presence of Lord Morg so sharply it was as if he was right beside him. This feeling would stay with him – he knew - anywhere within Morg's dreaded domain. The deal of service was made without speaking; life and limb for death, glory and riches. The dark lord and his minion understood each other.

Barthog followed the imp down more tunnels, until they came to a large, rectangular chamber. He took this to be his living quarters, judging from the scattered beddings and the steady stench of urine and bile demon. Barthog was gratified. In his last Dungeon he had to sleep in the corridor for two weeks before they made room for him in one of the Lairs. He had almost quit that time. The imp pointed at a group of goblins standing in one corner, and scurried away.

'I'll want beddings, rockrat!' Barthog growled after it.

When he looked again at the crowd of goblins, he suddenly stopped dead. If he had eyebrows, they would have shot up. One goblin seemed to be surrounded by all the others. His head stood above all of them at least by a foot. The others clearly yielded to him. It wasn't this that nonplussed Barthog. It was the fact that instead of the one-horned helmet that goblins traditionally wore, the tall goblin had two horns in his. Barthog walked towards the group, doing nothing to conceal his bewilderment. The tall goblin had seen him too; no doubt he had heard Barthog yelling at the imp. But why did his face register the same amount of surprise that Barthog felt? The tall goblin broke through the crowd and walked towards Barthog. His face now held an amused sneer.

'We've got a newcomer, lads.' He said to crowd behind him. 'All prettied up and lookin' for a boyfriend!'

All of a sudden Barthog became aware of the bracelets on his upper arm concealing his wound. The Lair rang with laughter now. Barthog kept his face impassive, despite the fact that it was becoming a darker shade of green.

'And who're you?' He said. He regretted saying that at once. It hardly passed as an insult. The laughter continued as the tall goblin ignored Barthog's question.

'Oi, Fughorn!' He bellowed at someone behind Barthog. 'Get over 'ere!'

Another goblin seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He too was a peculiar sight. Goblins didn't have noses. Whichever god created them seemed to skip straight to the nostrils embedded on their toad-like faces. Yet this one had a great lump on his face that could have passed for one. His nostrils were like two miniature trumpets. He looked warily at the tall goblin.

'Wot.'

'Take a gander at them.' Tall-One pointed at Barthog's upper arm. 'What do you say to that, eh?'

Big-Nose blinked at Barthog. He had rather heavier eyelids than most goblins, giving him a sleepy look. A stupid grin began to spread slowly on his face.

'Why, he looks like a right backthrotter, he does!'

'Yeah,' leered Tall-One as laughter increased in volume. Then without warning he shoved Big-Nose hard towards Barthog, making him plant his face to the floor. 'Now you got your boyfriend!' He crowed.

The goblins followed the tall one out of the Lair, laughing heartily. At Barthog's feet, Fughorn got on his hands and legs, moaning. He looked up at Barthog's glaring eyes. If it weren't for the backthrotter remark, Barthog might have pities this ridiculous-looking goblin. He didn't look as tough as the others. Barthog had been in three major campaigns. Experience told him that this one probably had never seen battle. The first one he saw might very well be his last. Fughorn gave Barthog the same wary look he had given the tall goblin. This mollified Barthog a little. He grabbed the big-nosed goblin by the throat and yanked him to his feet.

'Just having a bit o' jest!' Yelped Fughorn as Barthog's face came level with his. 'Meant no harm by it, honest!'

'Shut it!' Snapped Barthog, but he released Fughorn. 'Where's the Healer's chamber?'

Fughorn started to tell him, but Barthog cut him short. '_Take_ me there, bagpipe-face! Don't know me way 'round here.'

Fughorn was easy to bully. He complied at once. They went past a bile demon sleeping on him slime filled tray as they exited the Lair. The huge, red skinned creature was undisturbed by all the commotion. His legless body stayed upright, while his great, horned head nodded with each snore. As Barthog entered the corridor, he said to his new escort, 'That inbred one. How come he's got an Orkhan's helmet?'

Fughorn gave him a rueful look. 'That's me brother, Fugwar. Our Dad's the Orkhan of our village.' After a pause, he added, 'We're not inbred!'

'Your Dad's the Orkhan, but your brother ain't.' Stated Barthog. 'So going back to the kokthrottin' question, how come he's wearin' the helmet?'

There was no reason to think that this Fugwar was an Orkhan. Not here, in an overlord's service. Goblin ranks meant very little in a place like this, no matter how many horns they put on their helmet. Fughorn stated the obvious, 'He fancies himself as an Orkhan. Says he's going to start a tribe right here.'

As Barthog roared with laughter, Fughorn added, 'Not everyone likes it o'course. Some others think he's great, being so tall an' all.'

'We'll see.' said Barthog. Fughorn gave way to a leather-and-steel clad dark mistress who was coming the other way. Barthog did the same, assuming she had a high rank in the Dungeon. He thought of Fugwar's sneering face. A smug, pampered, chieftain's brat. The fact that those other goblins put up with this kokrot put a bad taste in his mouth. Come to think of it, he wasn't a whole head taller than Barthog either.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The Training Room rang with a cacophony that was no less chaotic than a battlefield. To Barthog's right, a pair of dark mistresses blasted lightning bolts at a steel dummy. Ahead of him a dark knight beheaded five straw dummies in a second, while somewhere behind him a couple of bile demons swung their sharp-edged horns at each other faster than anyone would ever think was possible; judging by their bulk. A warlock was straining himself trying to produce a big enough fireball to cause worry to a straw dummy. Barthog himself, along with few of his fellow goblins were practicing on wooden dummies. Barthog felt clammy, that kokrotten imp hadn't brought him any bedding, which meant he had to sleep on the cold floor. Even in his cave back in Lurkwood he had slept on a pile of leaves at the worst of times. He hadn't slept for more than three hours before Mentor Horst had bellowed them awake and got them training.

Despite the clamminess in his joints, Barthog was in a jovial mood. All elf-poison related worry had been lifted from his chest. Lucky for him, the resident Healer was about as bright as a wooden stump. He never questioned how Barthog got himself hit by an elven arrow, and therefore Barthog could happily retain all of his salary; half of which he was planning to offer the Healer in exchange for staying quiet about the injury. The poison was out of his system and a fresh bandage was wrapped around the wound. Barthog hadn't bothered to put the bracelets back after that. No one noticed a goblin. Barthog let his right arm rest, and practiced with his left. Now that the primary worry was behind him, Barthog longed to catch up on some Dungeon news and gossip. Unfortunately, Fughorn seemed to be the only one interested to bring him any.

"Have you heard?" Fughorn said from Barthog's immediate right. "They're sayin' Rudo Redhand's been seen around Boregind. If he joins up with King Stelhind it's bad news fer us!"

Barthog groaned inwardly. He'd never knowingly stand next to this bog-slurper, except that the dolt had the tendency to sneak up on you unawares. Barthog deliberately turned to the goblin on his left. "So what do they call you, mate?"

The other goblin pointed at Fughorn, and gave Barthog a nasty leer. "I don't think your _boyfriend's_ finished!" He said, cackling.

Unfortunately for the goblin, Barthog had been practicing hand to hand combat. He was just as good with his left fist as he was with his right. As the other goblin fell with his feet in the air, Fughorn howled with laughter. Barthog would have punched him too, but Fughorn was saved by the timely arrival of Mentor Horst.

"Everyone out!" he barked at the room. "You've played with those dolls long enough, underworms! Get yourselves doing something useful for a change!"

Mentor Horst was also the Train Master. He looked more like a gladiator than a sorcerer. His leathery mask of a face had a permanent scowl beneath his shining bald head. His build was in close proximity of a giant bull. Horst gave an angry snort when he saw Barthog's unfortunate victim lying on the floor. He charged forward and gave the goblin a sharp kick.

"Think he's a bit knackered, Mentor sir!" Barthog called out as he walked out. "He'll be up in an hour or so!"

They trickled out of the room while another batch of Dungeon minions went in for their session of training. Barthog rubbed his sore knuckles and shook his head. He'd rather not have gotten into a fight with a fellow goblin this early in the game. It was bad conduct. He wondered how many goblins there were in this Dungeon who wasn't Fugwar's crony.

"Tha' woz brilliant!" yelled Fughorn, who had appeared quite suddenly beside Barthog. Barthog opened his mouth to tell him to kokthrot off, when he heard someone call out to his left.

"Oi, Nancy!"

Barthog turned to see the two horned frame of Fugwar, flanked by a dozen of his goons. Fugwar eyed him with lazy contempt.

"Wot am I gonna do with you, Nancy?" he said. "You come into this Dungeon and then show me disrespect." Fughorn spread his arms and looked at his cronies. "I can take it." he said to them, and then continued to Barthog, "But then you go an' ass-owlt one of my boys. What am I to do about that, eh?"

"Your boys?" said Barthog softly. He was fast losing patience with Fugwar's _skepittle_. "You backthrot all of 'em?"

A soft "ooooh" issued from Fugwar's cronies. For a moment Fugwar's face was a mask. He was scrutinizing Barthog with a new kind of wariness. He took two steps forward.

"You an' me, Nancy." he said quietly, pointing. "In the Combat Pit. Right now."

"There's chickens in the Hatchery." Barthog said calmly. "If you want ter intimidate summink." He turned and walked away. He could hear Fugwar's goons jeering, but he could also feel Fugwar boiling with rage. He smirked to himself. He would deal with this _dungpoonit_ when the time was right.

The Great Hall of Morg's Dungeon wasn't as cavernous as Melor's, but it was well furnished, and still large enough for every little sound to echo at least twice. Melor's Hall had had the traditional long tables that one would find at a King's castle. Many of his minions had been contemptuous about that. Only a dark lord who had managed to Emerge and rule the overworld had any right to such lavishness. Morg's Hall suited its purpose. Smaller tables were scattered all around, with wooden stools all around them. In the far corner, Barthog could make out several littlewheels, slotspin boxes and dice tables. Despite not being a huge gambler, Barthog was pleased to see them.

Barthog sat down at a table near the Hall entrance. His right shoulder had started to scream feebly once more. It was a _good _pain, the Healer had assured him. It meant it was healing fast. Despite that, Barthog groaned miserably. He was dying for his daily ration of one tankard of ale, except the kitchen wasn't open yet. He thought back to the disaster at the Dungeon he had deserted. Barthog had served three dark lords in succession. Even a day before Melor's defeat he was wistfully thinking of Lurkwood. There was a time when reminiscing about home wasn't something he did willingly. It was a shameful prospect; for cowards and weaklings who could not face the world and wanted to crawl back home to their Mammies. Even now some of that shame remained, and yet a part of him supported his right to a temporary rest. Hadn't he earned it? Hadn't he charged down the valley of Voregard - screaming bloodcurdling war-cries – with the mighty army of Maurod behind him? Hadn't he survived in the frontlines of Lady Krota's Dungeon campaign against the Pendrian Empire? What did it matter if the bitch got herself slain after she Emerged? He had _made_ her. Where would these so-called great overlords be without the likes of him? Barthog looked around his grim surroundings and sighed. He could have been on his way back to Lurkwood even now, if it wasn't for the kokrotting elf-poison. He had left Lurkwood with a half-loaf of hardbread, five copper pieces and a makeshift bow. He wouldn't return there with a cartload of riches, as he had foolishly dreamed back then. But what did it matter if it was only a tiny sack of gold and a patchwork of battle scars he brought back? How many goblins could attest even to that? At least he wouldn't be _here_, risking his life once again for some warlord.

"Good one!" a voice said behind him. "That was a scene an' a half!"

Barthog emerged sharply from his reverie. His hand flew to his copper sword before he could stop himself.

"Easy now." the voice said again. "Won't be needin' that with me."

Barthog turned to see an unknown goblin. The Hall had a slow trickle of creatures coming in now to exploit the short time they had for rest. The other goblin sat in front of Barthog, chuckling.

"Fugwar's in a right state." he said. "Never seen him so wound up. I'd be careful if I were you, mate."

"I'll look after myself." grunted Barthog. He wasn't in the mood to talk about that fool at that moment. He looked across to the other goblin, glad of company. "What are you called, then?"

"Haglock." said the goblin.

"Humph." Barthog was reminded instantly of that other Haglock he had known less than a day ago. He tried to not think of the arrow in his head, his body probably left where it was to rot. The Dark gods were cruel.

They introduced each other. Haglock had only been here slightly over a month. Morg's Dungeon had been in construction for little over a year, and the surge of recruitment had started more recently. Lord Morg had his eyes (or eye; who knows how many he actually had?) set on the mighty Kingdom of Boregind, and had placed his Dungeon beneath its North-Western border. There was still no solid indication that the enemy was aware of Morg's subterranean presence near its border, though this was only what the goblins could surmise. No goblin was ever given a place at a dark lord's War Council, so a great deal of information was denied to them. However, Haglock reckoned the sudden surge of recruitment might indicate otherwise. Barthog silently agreed. This was Haglock's first experience with a dark lord's campaign. Still, he'd had years of experience working in raiding parties. Haglock's eyes seemed to pop out when Barthog filled him in regarding his experience.

"You was with Lord Maurod?" he breathed.

Barthog shrugged nonchalantly, and nodded. It was hard not to look smug about this.

"An' I've just been tellin' him about Rudo Redhand!" cried an excited voice. Barthog looked to his right and suppressed another groan. Fughorn had found their table. He sat down and looked eagerly at them. His nostrils quivered excitedly. He turned to Haglock and said, "Have you heard?"

"Yeah, Rudo." said Haglock. He turned back to Barthog with narrowed eyes. "Didn't he bring down Maurod? You must've seen a lot of him."

Barthog explained that he hadn't. Rudo had attacked from the East, with the might of the Krisni-Akaba'ad alliance behind him. Barthog had been among the troops stationed at the Blue Marshes down South. By the time they returned to the Blood Fortress, it was deserted save the ocean of corpses that surrounded it. Maurod had fled, with Rudo and the remains of his troops in pursuit. With the boss gone, Barthog's last payment never came. Barthog had no regrets about that. The loot he scavenged from the bodies had made up for most of it.

"Lucky." commented Haglock. "If you was there you could've been on that body pile."

Barthog sensed a sudden scepticism in Haglock's tone, and resented it at once. He would have to show these newbies what he was made of, and soon. Fughorn seemed to have believed him about his credentials. His heavy-lidded eyes were narrowed to slits with excitement.

"If High King Stel hires him we've got big trouble on our hands!" he ranted happily.

Barthog rolled his eyes at the goblin's naivety. He was familiar with the pre-veteran's excitement at the promise of adventure; without taking into account just how closely death hovered over them. Goblins at the least posed little concern for the likes of Rudo Redhand.

"Stelhind asked his help once before, you dolt!" snapped Haglock. "Rudo turned him down."

"That right?" said Barthog, surprised.

"You din't know that?" said Haglock.

Barthog detected a half-sneer in Haglock's tone. Annoyed, he opened his mouth to make a half-retort, when suddenly there was a clap of thunder near their table. The three of them jumped and looked around. A tall, wiry-thin man was standing where the sound had been. He had short, sleek hair that was matched perfectly by his small goatee, wearing a black robe dashed with purple. He fixed the three of them with a glare.

"You!" he snapped. "Useless dolts, the dark lord does not pay you to socialize!" The man had a sharp, slightly-nasal voice. "Come with me at once. I'll see if I can get you doing something constructive."

"Right you are, Chief Mentor sir!" Haglock said, jumping to his feet. "Come on, you lot."

They followed the man out of the Hall. As they went past a couple of rooms, the Mentor stopped at an open doorway. Barthog saw a workshop in there. He felt a strong wave of heat on his face the next moment. A couple of trolls and an orc were hammering noisily away at something he couldn't quite see. The Mentor had paused in order to shout angrily at the trolls while they gave him resentful looks. Barthog took this opportunity to trip a passing imp. This was the one who failed to bring him his bedding. Or at least, he thought it was. In truth they all looked alike. The imp gave him a baleful stare, but the presence of the Chief Mentor seemed to stop it from speaking or retaliating. They continued on. Soon they had walked so far from the main part of the Dungeon that its clamorous ambience began to die away. Finally, they went through a door into a small and completely unfurnished room. Imps scurried in after them carrying stone, brick and trays of mortar. From either ends of the room fortifications were being made that came steadily towards the centre of the far wall. They were made with great speed, with imps climbing on top of each other to raise the fortifications to the roof. Crude as the fortified walls looked, Barthog knew that once finished it will be flowing with magic channelled from the Heart. Only the strongest magic could hope to penetrate a Dungeon's fortifications.

"You will guard this room until further instructions!" barked the Chief Mentor over the cacophony. "The Lord Keeper will be watching this area with special interest," he added, "any skiving and I will personally supervise you on the torture wheel, understood?"

"Yes sir, Chief Mentor." said Fughorn as the Mentor marched out of the door.

When the Chief Mentor was safely out of earshot, Haglock muttered something that had Fughorn shaking with stifled giggles. "I'm guessin' that's not his real name?" said Barthog.

"His name's Hikandrix." whispered Haglock, "But soon enough you'll be calling him that other name more often."

"It rhymes, too." noted Barthog.

"Wonder what's so special about this room." muttered Haglock.

Barthog wondered as well. They watched the steady development of the fortifications, standing at a safe spot from which they could avoid the movement of the imps. As Barthog watched the brick-and-stone wall coming towards each other from left and right, he began to have a faint suspicion about what going on. His suspicions came true after about an hour. The imps stopped building, leaving a brown wall of earth flanked by the two fortified ones. They cleared up the excess brick and stone and carried them away. The ones that remained picked up their shovels.

"Oh, skep." commented Barthog.

The imps had begun to dig into the earthy wall. Barthog saw the beginnings of a tunnel that would be around five goblins wide. Tunnelling out of a fortified room meant only one thing; Morg wanted to explore a potentially enemy-infested area. Barthog looked at the expressions on his fellow goblins. Even Fughorn seemed to have understood the situation. It suddenly dawned on Barthog that there were only three of them. Two, if he counted Fughorn's lack of experience. For a moment he wondered if he should go back and ask for back up, and then remembered that Morg was keeping an eye on this place. Fughorn sighed and waited. Putting your trust on a dark lord never boosted your confidence. A half-hour passed. As a testament to their speed, the imps had dug a tunnel long enough that its end was lost in the darkness. A short while later the Chief Mentor reappeared with another clap of thunder. He went to the new reinforced wall of the room and plucked out a couple of flaming torches that had been placed there. He glared at the goblins and gestured towards the tunnel, just as Barthog had feared.

As they entered the pitch dark passageway, Barthog saw door of the room opening behind them. A dark mistress with silvery hair and glacier-blue eyes came through it, followed by another dark haired mistress. A dark knight followed them, his body shelled in black armour. He was flanked by three orcs. A bile demon thumped and knuckled into the room last. A small amount of hope flared in the goblins' hearts. They only hoped that the backup would be where they are when the enemy came. The tunnel was pitch-dark, but the goblins' nightseeing eyes adjusted quickly to the light of the torches that came behind them. The human Mentor would have greater trouble seeing anything in this place. As they delved deeper, the earthy wall on their left fell away to be replaced by a wall of godsbone rock. It reflected a lighter brown colour than the surrounding earth. It gave Barthog a strange sense of reassurance. Not even the magically fortified walls of the Dungeon could put up a defence as good as godsbone. They came to the end of the tunnel. A large, wooden door barred their way. Barthog's heart sank; only bad news lurked on the other side.

The Chief Mentor held one of the torches against right wall. It remained there without anything seeming to hold it in place. "Break it down!" he commanded the goblins.

Barthog perked up at once. "Come on, lads," he called out, "Altogether!"

Barthog and Haglock kicked the door in unison. Fughorn caught on and joined them a moment later. Barthog was resenting the orcs that had stayed behind. They were stronger and some of them had hammers. They could do this in no time. Large as the door was, it seemed to be made of thin wood. It didn't take too long before it started to creak and begin to splinter. One final blow made it collapse. Even as his last blow fell, Barthog heard the sound from the other side. It was a sound that haunted his nightmares.

"RUUUUUUUUUUUUN!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs. He tore down the corridor as fast as he could. The passageway shook and rumbled beneath him. He didn't need to look back to know that a great boulder of stone was coming after him, and catching up fast. Barthog gritted his teeth and ran faster. He tore through the other end of the tunnel. The cry of warning died in his throat. The room was completely deserted. There was no time to try and open the door. The boulder burst into the room. It shone mossy green in the torchlight. Barthog rolled out of its way to his left. The boulder hit the wall beside the door. The magically reinforced wall made it rebound. It rumbled back and hit the wall on the left of the tunnel opening, then rebounded again, and again, and again. It was going further away from Barthog, yet he knew that it could very well roll back. Barthog ran to the door, found it locked and kicked it in rage. The boulder rebounded one last time, and then the magic that fuelled it seemed to run dry and it suddenly crumbled against the opposite wall into a mound of earth and rock. Through a film of dust Barthog saw Fughorn crouched against the wall on the other side of the room. The boulder had been slowly progressing towards the unfortunate fool. Fughorn's complexion was a pale, puke-green. His eyes stared back at Barthog hollowly.

Barthog mentally cursed Morg. Then he hoped Morg couldn't read minds. The door of the room opened then. Chief Mentor Hokandrix ambled in and his troop of Dungeon minions followed him. Barthog glowered at them hatefully. They however, strode into the tunnel without as much as a glance at the two goblins. Barthog took this to mean that no enemies would be streaming in from the other side of the door they had smashed. A couple of imps followed the troop carrying little metal poles with a rounded top. Barthog followed them purely out of curiosity. The boulder had distorted the perfectly rectangular edges of the tunnel opening. The floor was smooth in its wake. As Barthog went in, he saw Fughorn scurrying out of the room without a word. More imps were streaming in. They were already fortifying the tunnel walls from the entrance. Two imps streaked past him carrying temporary torches on long poles. As he neared the end of the tunnel, he was the corpse of Haglock lying on its face. _Should've stuck to raiding and robbing_, Barthog thought sadly.

Imps were taking the remains of the doors apart; others were fixing the silvery poles on the floor of the other side. Barthog supposed they were gas or lightning traps, or both. He and others found themselves in a largish single cave that was roughly oval in shape. A chasm, at least ten goblins wide, split it down the middle. The two sides were connected by an arched stone bridge. A wide passageway started on the opposite end of the cave wall and disappeared around the corner. The other side of the chasm had torches flickering on the cave wall. Barthog went forward past the others and looked down the chasm. It was deep. A golden thread snaked in its gloomy depths. It was a river of lava; Barthog thought he could feel some of its heat even from here.

"The enemy is on the other side." remarked the Chief Mentor, but no one needed him to state the obvious. Suddenly, there was an almighty crash. One of the orcs had run on to the stone bridge without being instructed. It collapsed under him almost instantly, proving that it hadn't been built recently. The heard the orc screaming for quite a long time. It was a large drop.

Both of the mistresses cried out with dismay. It wasn't out of concern for the orc. The breaking of the bridge had postponed their opportunity to deal out some pain to the enemy, and perhaps receive some. No one was more eager to run to the jaws of death than a dark mistress, who revelled every opportunity. These two were probably getting bored of strapping themselves on the torture wheel of Morg's Torture Chamber. Barthog shook his head at the thought.

"The bridge must be rebuilt at once." said the blonde mistress firmly.

The Mentor rounded on her, looking furious. "Dare you presume to advise the Lord Keeper on his decisions?" he growled.

"Will he punish us?" said the dark haired mistress eagerly.

"Be silent!" barked the Chief Mentor. "And stay alert, the lot of you! I shall consult the dark lord."

Hikandrix closed his eyes. For almost a minute they waited. Then the Chief Mentor's eyes opened and glowered at the mistresses. "Chaos, Thorne; you will stay and guard the chasm until further notice. I will send the warlocks Telchines and Malach to join you."

"Those fools?" hooted the blonde mistress.

"Silence!" snapped the Mentor, but both mistresses cackled contemptuously.

The Chief Mentor shook his head with disgust. "The rest of you disperse!" he yelled. He turned to the armoured knight and said, "Peragonn, get all the knights suited and ready. We may be engaging the enemy within the next forty-eight to seventy hours! Perhaps even sooner!"

"As you wish, Chief Mentor." rumbled the knight from behind his helmet.

They went back to the down now doorless tunnel opening. Four traps were erect on either side of it. Their round top was rotating, indicating that they had been activated. Any creature who had not given his allegiance to Lord Morg would face a fatal (or at least painful) experience if they tried to enter this passageway. Barthog saw the corpse of the goblin called Haglock being dragged away feet first by two imps. He sighed mournfully. A day hadn't yet passed since he had entered the Dungeon, and already he had come so close to sharing the other goblin's fate.


End file.
